


He Moves

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Shyness, Lovers, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 11:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13546551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Greg comes to a realization about his as yet undefined relationship with Mycroft, and he helps express his feelings to his lover with song.





	He Moves

          Despite the very low light—there was only one lamp on, and ambient light coming in through the high arched transom over the windows—Mycroft hurried to undress. They had been lovers for nearly four months now, and Greg had noticed that the younger man was nearly as skittish as the first time they’d come together. He preferred no lights on at all when they were intimate, and it had been a matter of extreme compromise (read pleading on Greg’s part) to allow the lamp to remain on. It was with haste that he removed his clothes and all but dove under the covers.

          Once he was in bed, he settled. Once Greg had joined him, limbs easing into the soft nest and tangling with Mycroft’s, their skin warming one another, he relaxed. After long, luxurious minutes of kissing, Mycroft would wind himself around Greg as if he couldn’t fathom being parted. Their lovemaking was a thing of quiet joy; each caress, each kiss, sent waves of pleasure and happiness all throughout Greg’s body and soul and left him awash in contentment.

          When he was a young and hasty man he might not have appreciated the subtly delicious ways in which they brought one another to completion. His experiences with men had always been rather urgent and a bit wild; his female lovers had always walked a line between romance and urgent, showy shagging. His marriage—well, that was better left out of the equation altogether, as it was no one’s ideal. With Mycroft, there was a sensuality and appreciation which he had no words for; all Greg knew was that the last four months had been the happiest of his life.

          So if Mycroft Holmes wanted dim rooms and the slow slide of hands, the gentle rocking of bodies, soft murmurs stoppered by eager lips…Greg Lestrade was going to give it all to him. None of his previous lovers had been so damn classy and so fiercely in control, but he honestly couldn’t say he minded. Not a bit, except for the fact that he only got to see that damnably sexy body fully nude for perhaps five seconds before it disappeared beneath the quilted bedcovers.

          After, body still simmering with the after effects of his orgasm, Greg rolled onto his back and tucked on arm behind his head, the other pulling Mycroft close. Mycroft let slip a very contented sounding sigh and rolled onto his side, burying his nose briefly in Greg’s armpit and none too subtly sniffing him. Greg grinned at the disordered head, fondness warming his chest, “You always do that—have a thing for my deodorant, do you?”

          “Is it an odd thing to do?” Mycroft asked rather seriously, stopping his assiduous sniffing and propping his chin on Greg’s pec to regard him with what might have been mild embarrassment.

          “Not _odd_ , just that no one else ever sniffed me before.”

          “More fool they,” Mycroft said primly, letting a hand smooth down Greg’s chest, over his stomach and settle over his belly button, which Greg had also noticed he had an affinity for. “You smell…indescribable.”

          “Fancy that, Mycroft Holmes without words,” Greg teased, “I’ll have to write Dove and let ‘em know how successful their product is!”

          Mycroft didn’t move, but he almost visibly withdrew, “You do think it odd.”

          Greg cursed himself—sometimes he had no idea how to navigate the minefield that was Mycroft Holmes and his million and one quirks—it would be easier if he could just ask what was wrong, but for all their physical closeness, their frequent dinners and late night drinks, there was still a reserve between them. “No! I was just teasing…honestly, I don’t know what to say…no one’s ever before been so enthusiastic about the way I smell.”

          Mycroft relaxed, although he kept his face slightly averted; his hand resumed its absent-minded petting of Greg’s belly. It had taken a while, but Greg had finally stopped sucking in his stomach when Mycroft did that; it was clear that his bit of padding wasn’t a deterrent. “It’s ridiculous—on the surface I shouldn’t be remotely drawn to the smell of your deodorant—and yet, it is part of you and underneath it is your musk, your natural smell—and I find that too rather intoxicating.”

          That definitely called for a kiss; Greg surged onto his side and his hand took a firm grasp on Mycroft’s delicious bum and pulled him close. It was too soon for another round, but that didn’t mean, he had most delightedly found, that it was any reason why they couldn’t kiss and caress to their heart’s content. And his heart, he noticed, was very greedy for Mycroft.

          Time unspooled unnoticed, and they sank further into the glorious mattress, pressing kisses and touches upon one another. Eventually Mycroft stirred, “I must excuse myself. It seems that last whiskey is making its displeasure known.”

          Greg grinned and stretched, “Hurry back, will you? I’m missing you already,” _Sweetheart_ he wanted to add on. He’d never had such a desire to use pet names as he did with this man, and yet he hesitated. Whatever they were (and that was never very clear from the first time they succumbed to their mutual desire) it wasn’t something that allowed for the easy use of diminutives.

          “Yes my dear,” he rather incredulously thought he heard. Greg nearly sat up, but forced himself to lie supine.

          “What was that?” He asked casually, heartbeat increasing.

          Mycroft paused at the edge of the bed, looking back at him, his face in shadow. “I said never fear.”

          “Ah.” Greg swallowed a sigh of disappointment. Mycroft reached for the dressing gown he had—as always—laid across the footboard in preparation for rising. Slipping it on, he rose and reached for the ties. “You know,” Greg dared to say, “You don’t have to wear that on my account. In fact, you don’t have to wear anything at all, when it’s just the two of us.”

          The falter of those normally self-assured movements was not just his imagination. Mycroft finished tying the gown closed and smiled at him briefly over one (regrettably clothed) shoulder, “And yet I find myself not capable of striding about naked.”

          “You could leave it untied,” Greg suggested huskily, giving him his most flirtatious smile, “Give me a bit of a thrill?”

          “Hardly thrilling,” Mycroft said dryly, dismissively. He crossed the gloomy bedroom to the en suite and Greg settled back with a sigh, mind turning over his thoughts. Strange as it seemed to him, Mycroft—slim, elegant, pulse-elevatingly sexy Mycroft—was very reserved about his body. Shy, even.

          Greg thought about his self-consciousness over his less than toned stomach, the disparity between his Boots purchased body products and Mycroft’s plethora of high-end skin care products. He remembered the times lovers had complained about his body hair (his ex-wife had bitched at him plenty about not ‘manscaping’ his rather bountiful chest and groin hair) and the contrasting memory of Mycroft kissing his way down his treasure trail for the first time, murmuring about his “delicious virility.” And too, he thought about the seven years difference in their age, the seemingly insurmountable differences in class, position, power, wealth.

          He thought about how Mycroft had moved through all of his reservations as if they were mere smoke, not treating them as if the import of them in Greg’s mind was of no consequence, but simply as if he recognized them and wanted Greg to see they were not an impediment in his eyes.

          In the short time it took Mycroft to finish his ablutions, Greg had come to a rather startling discovery. All these months he had been behaving as if this was something pleasant and tenuous and trying not to let it mean as much to him as it did. His perception of Mycroft as a man who didn’t need reassurance about his middle-aged body, his all too natural concerns about his body pleasing his lover, they had been standing in his way and it wasn’t until this moment that he’d even realized it.

          The door to the en suite opened, light snapping off a moment later, but not before the lithe form of a tousle-headed and silk draped Mycroft Holmes was perfectly outlined. Although the room was no doubt startlingly dark in comparison to the bright light of the room he had just quit, he moved with assurance. That was, he did until out of the relative gloom came Greg’s voice, stopping him in his tracks as if he’d taken a shot to the heart.

_“Something in the way he moves…attracts me like no other lover…something in the way he woos me…”_

          Mycroft swayed in place as if shocked into immobility, as Greg—once trained voice only slightly rough from casual disuse—sang the chorus of the old Beatles song; he didn’t move as Greg continued, heart beating too fast, palms damp, voice warming.

          _“Somewhere in his smile, he knows…that I don’t need no other lover…something in his smile that shows me…”_

          Mycroft made a soft sound, drifting closer, as if unable to help but be drawn to Greg’s crooning as surely as any sailor had ever been diverted by a siren.

          _“You’re asking me will my love grow…I don’t know, I don’t know,”_ Greg sang, voice shaking slightly as his nerves rushed into his chest, crowding his desperate heart; _surely_ Mycroft knew what he was saying, _“You stick around now it may show…I don’t know, I don’t know…”_

          Unable to remain still, Greg swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge, hands gripping the mattress; he nearly stood but a slight motion of Mycroft’s hand kept him where he was. _“Something in the way he knows…and all I have to do is think of him…something in the things he shows me…”_ His voice was on the verge of breaking now; all of his sternly buried concerns about where this thing was headed were rushing to the forefront, leaving him nearly light-headed. Oh, _Christ_ , what if he had ruined this? _“Don’t wanna leave him now—”_

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, voice shaky and vibrant need blossoming in the single word. Greg’s voice dried up and he licked his lips, hope warring with panic to leave him dizzy. Mycroft moved with uncharacteristic indecision, hands wavering as if he were doubting himself, and then took a step forward, “Don’t—” an audible swallow and he choked, “—leave me.”

          “Mycroft,” Greg gasped, standing, and they met in the middle of the rug, crashing together, hands clutching with rapacious, hungry fervor as their mouths tangled in a blistering kiss. He felt his legs trembling—actually trembling as if they might fail him—and his head was light, his hands on Mycroft’s back were shaking wildly. “I’m not gonna leave you, love,” he denied, burying his face in Mycroft’s neck and pressing tiny kisses to the damp skin, “How could I? You—you’re everything, My—I’ve spent the last four months happier than I’ve ever been except when I was worrying that at any minute you’d tire of me.”

          Mycroft laughed a touch wildly, framing his face in his hands, pulling back so he could meet Greg’s eyes, “Tire of you?” he asked incredulously, “For God’s sake, Gregory, I was convinced you were just satisfying an itch—indulging your curiosity.”

          “God, sweetheart,” Greg breathed, not even noticing he’d begun releasing all of his pent-up pet names; they were unstoppable, bouncing happily out of the cage they’d been confined to, “You’re daft for such a smart man—I thought you were the one scratching an itch, just having it off with a bit of West Country rough before you showed me the door.”

          “Clearly I’m a bit of an idiot,” Mycroft said humbly, stroking Greg’s cheekbone with his thumb, lightly brushing over the lines around his eyes that Greg had secretly hated until that exact moment. “My passion for you blinded me to your emotions.”

          “It’s alright,” Greg allowed, backing up toward the bed, pulling Mycroft with him; he settled his bum against the mattress and tugged Mycroft into the vee of his thighs, looping his arms around that slim waist. “You’re my idiot.”

          Mycroft looked absurdly pleased, as if he found the idea of belonging to Greg to be something worth pride and pleasure. “I confess, this is the first time anyone has used the word and made it sound like an endearment.”

          “I’ve got lots of nice words saved up for you,” Greg promised, parting the lapels of his lover’s robe and pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to the sparse, coppery hair of his chest. “Lover…gorgeous…sunshine…”

          “Absurd,” Mycroft moaned, bending his head tenderly to lay his cheek on Greg’s hair and cling to his shoulders, “I—I’m _no one’s_ idea of gorgeous, and I have nothing in common with sunshine.”

          “I hate to disagree with you, beautiful,” Greg smiled, turning his face up for a kiss, “But you are stupidly gorgeous…I spend a shameful amount of time thinking about the lovely glimpses I get of your long legs and that frankly stunning arse of yours…not to mention your beautiful eyes, and your smile, and your hands—Christ, My, your hands slay me.” He rained fervent kisses on them, faintly aware of Mycroft’s shaky breathing and the faint whine of need. Greg looked back up at him, drinking in the open, needy expression on Mycroft’s face, the flush on his cheeks, the stormy eyes dark with the desire which dilated his pupils. “And just like sunshine you warm me, bring a smile to my face on dark days, and have made my world better every day you’re in it.”

          Mycroft closed his eyes, a tiny tear trembled on his lashes before slipping loose and tracking down his cheek. He opened his eyes again and with just a fraction of a second’s pause, his hands went to his belt and then the tie was slithering open and dropping to his sides and he shrugged the garment off and stood nude. “Gregory…I am, I am none of those things you listed, and yet your eyes tell me how honestly you view me.” He made a jerky gesture toward his body, a gesture which was quickly aborted when he clasped his hands into loose fists at his sides. “You have been remarkably patient with my nonsense, but I—I find I want to, to share myself with you.” He swallowed heavily, “F-flaws and all.”

          Resisting the urge to scoff and tell him he was crazy, Greg gave Mycroft a very appreciative perusal from head to toe and back. Resting his gaze on the other man’s face, he reached out for his hands, heart squeezing with tenderness at the eager clasp he received. “My, would you look at me the way I just did you? Please?”

          Questions practically hummed in the air, but he subsided, and obeyed. The warmth of his look made Greg flush slightly, but he stayed still, not even making an effort to suck in his middle, which he felt must look—with the way he was sitting on the edge of the bed—as creased as a shar pei’s coat. At last Mycroft raised his eyes to Greg’s face, expression warm (and more than a touch lustful).

          “Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

          “I see a man who is more than merely handsome—a man whose form and face attract a second look—a man who moves with dynamic grace, exudes enthusiasm and joy.” Mycroft flushed, “Your hair is stunning, Gregory, and I can hardly keep myself from plunging my hands into it every time I see you. Your eyes…the way they look at me, with desire, yes, but with such, such _affection_.” He faltered, took a moment to compose himself, “I’m endlessly fascinated by the warmth of your skin…during the summer it is like the most luscious of caramels, and in the winter, although the tone fades, it is still evocative of the warm, lazy days of summer.” Mycroft closed his eyes, “ _Lord,_ listen to me spouting atrocious free verse.”

          Greg laughed, squeezing his hands and waiting for those stunning gray eyes to open again. “Now I’ll tell you what I see when I look at you.”

          “Oh, I—erm.”

          “Don’t be worried, only good things to say,” Greg winked. He smoothed out the flirtatious expression, hoped his milder smile still shone with the sincerity he felt. “You’re so successful at presenting yourself as this impervious force, My, and yet over the last ten years I’ve come to know you and to see you in a different light. You, you move with precision—not like a machine, but like a man in perfect control of his body, with, with _confidence._ That’s dead sexy, gorgeous. And your skin,” Greg slipped one hand up the bare length of Mycroft’s arm, humming lightly, “It seems pale at first, but then you see shades of peach and, and what’s’at, apricot…and your freckles!”

          Mycroft flushed and opened his mouth, but Greg continued, “I adore the way your hair curls when I’ve absolutely wrecked it with my hands, and your eyes, God, My, they defy naming. They’re more than just blue, but they’re not simply gray, either.” He brought Mycroft’s hand to his mouth, lipped at his knuckles. “And your hands…have I ever mentioned how much they drive me mad? No? It’s _criminal_ , sweetheart, that’s what it is. And your body,” he gave it another look, smiling with intent, letting his eyes darken, his lids lower as he looked back into Mycroft’s dazed face, “This is the first time I’m seeing it all properly at once and I can say it is definitely worth the wait…Jesus, those legs of yours go one for _miles_ , don’t they?” He leaned around and ogled Mycroft’s backside, then faced him again, waggling his eyebrows, “Not to mention the arse on you!”

          _“Gregory.”_

Pulling him closer, Greg put his arms tightly around his lover and smiled, “Not how you’d describe yourself?”

          Mycroft laughed dryly, “Hardly.”

          “Mm, fair enough…what you said about me?” Greg shrugged, feeling his ears warm at the memory, “It’s hardly how I’d dare think of myself when I’m at my best. Me, I’m just the far side of forty, a bit saggy, gray, wrinkled…a dumb copper with vocational school training and a string of failed relationships.” He shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant and suspecting he failed. He’d just depressed himself—Christ, what _did_ Mycroft see in him?

          “None of those things—while perhaps technically true in some aspects—properly describe you,” Mycroft said, dipping his head to kiss him. “I begin to suspect that you wanted me to realize that the lens through which I view my flaws is not as clear as I had believed.”

          “Something like that,” Greg agreed, “God knows I’m not perfect, My, and I’m too old and too street-wise to believe anyone is…but I do know that you drive me blind with lust, you make me stupidly happy, and I’m the luckiest bastard in London.”

          “Gregory,” Mycroft said urgently, pushing him backwards onto the bed and climbing up to join him; he wound his arms tightly around Greg and kissed him deeply, hungrily until they were both breathless and hard with wanting, “I don’t deserve you—but I’m beginning to believe I can’t live without you.”

          “You don’t have to,” Greg breathed, raining kisses on his face as Mycroft smiled down at him, eyes shining with visible happiness. _“Don’t wanna leave you now,”_ he sang huskily, paraphrasing.

          “How does the last line go?” Mycroft asked, and then gleamed with delight at him, singing in a thin, untutored voice, _“You know I believe and how…”_

**Author's Note:**

> The song Greg sings is, of course, 'Something' by The Beatles. I took the liberty of altering the lyrics since Mycroft is many things, none of which is a woman.


End file.
